


worship.

by annie_reckson



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And an idiot in love, And he's certainly no King Solomon, Body Worship, Crowley is a Softie, Crowley is no King David, Devotion, M/M, Post-Coital, Post-Coital Cuddling, philosophical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 07:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20524619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: Crowley knows why She created angels in the first place - above all else, they're creatures designed for devotion and reverence. However, even before he Fell, the nature of it seemed ridiculous to him. He never really understood the purpose of it all.Until now.





	worship.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I have not posted anything in over two years. That's absurd. Well. Blame Good Omens. And the song "cherubim" by serpentwithfeet.

He knows this emotion. This deep need fashioning a ball of radiating heat in his gut, begging to be released from his mouth, imploring him to part his lips and let the words come forth, as they’re designed to do. The desire to indulge weights him in place, consuming his thoughts until his skin vibrates with want. He knows this emotion.

He used to be an angel, after all. 

But, that was a long time ago. Any wisp of memory from before the Fall is just that to Crowley - a wisp. There are bits he’s always grasped for - the beautiful parts, the creating parts - but nothing from that time is ever solid enough for him to truly hold. 

And, yet.

There is one aspect burned into his memory more than the rest. Possibly because it was the part he liked the least about being an angel. He wasn’t an idiot, he’s always understood the omnipotence and power and wonder and sheer awe of Her, yet he never understood the compulsory worship. Crowley was one of many beings designed to give reverence. Devotion, adoration, veneration, praise, it was all written in their DNA.

_ Did angels have DNA? _

It didn’t matter. Crowley was aware - as they all were - that while She freely gave them other duties and responsibilities, they had one main purpose.  _ Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord almighty. _

He’d hated it then. If She truly is omnipotent, then She should already know how they felt, She should already know how powerful She was, and She shouldn’t need a hoard of winged ninnies reminding her. Why does an All-Powerful Being need a reminder of how powerful She is?

It was one of the questions Crowley shouldn’t have asked.

Regardless. It’s in the early hours of a Saturday morning, in a comfy bed above a bookshop, with sheets and blankets rucked around his hips and thighs, that he begins to have a change of heart. 

_ Perhaps _ , he thinks,  _ perhaps there is some value to the concept of worship.  _

The faint morning sun starting to stream through the curtains is just enough for Crowley to see the figure lying beside and beneath him. Not that he needed it, the angel’s body has always been warm enough for him to instinctively track and map, when needed. Granted, right now there’s no need for him to track Aziraphale down, not when the angel is soft and tender and  _ glowing _ and pressed against his body.

He splays his hand across the angel’s chest and belly, running his fingers over the inconceivably soft, blond hair. Crowley’s hair has never been like this. Coarse and thick and fiery red. All over him, like another sort of punishment for his indiscretions. 

This type of indiscretion though, he looks forward to enjoying more often. Waking up with Aziraphale, filling his nostrils with the angel’s sweet scent, getting to watch him sleep ( _ And more importantly,  _ Crowley thought,  _ knowing I’m the one who exhausted him enough for him to sleep _ ), he could become addicted to it. 

As it is, Aziraphale shifts slightly when Crowley leans forward to place a small, feather-light kiss right at his breastbone, but still doesn’t wake. His soft eyes, framed by fair eyelashes and sleep-tousled blond curls, remain closed. 

Slowly, steadily, Crowley moves his hand to Aziraphale’s side and lifts himself up, framing the angel with his arms. In this position, with his penetrating gaze and lean hovering, one could mistake him as the predator in the situation. If anything, he’s never wanted more to be prey.

A beam of sunlight grazes Aziraphale’s neck, highlighting the spot where, just hours before, Crowley had focused his attention, his teeth, and his tongue. If he could figure out a way to capture the sweet noises flowing from Aziraphale’s lips while Crowley marked his pristine, ethereal skin, he’d carry them in a bottle and keep it on him always.

Crowley’s eyes widen as he continues to slowly trace his gaze over Aziraphale’s flushed, delicate features. Every gorgeous curve, every decadent dimple, every charming wrinkle, makes him want to write a psalm. Given enough time, he knows he could fill an entire book of poetry just on how peaceful and perfect Aziraphale looks when he sleeps. Even better, when he releases.

A small shudder runs down Crowley’s spine as he remembers the moment of Aziraphale coming undone by his hands. By his body. The blush starting in the middle of the angel’s chest and spreading like wings until it covered his neck, his shoulders, his face. 

Not for the first time, Crowley is frustrated by his own limitations. If it were possible, he’d write a song to put Solomon to shame. He would gladly - reverently - whisper it into Aziraphale’s ear every morning. He’d trick every pop singer into covering it. He’d somehow find a way for a playwright to include it in a musical. 

More importantly, he wishes he could shout it from every rooftop he’s ever seen. He wants every person in this blasted world to know and see how much he adores, cherishes, admires, celebrates,  _ loves _ his angel. The coil of heat in his belly gives him a need to shout in people’s faces until they, too, love his angel. The way he deserves to be loved. The way he loves others.

The sunlight creeps up Aziraphale’s face until it shines on one eye. Annoyed, the angel first scrunches his face -  _ Adorable _ , Crowley thinks - then flutters his eyes open, taking a moment to fully settle on the demon hovering over him.

“Crowley,” He gently creaks out, “My dear boy, what are you doing?”

Without answering, Crowley ducks down to softly graze the tip of his nose against the angel’s. A sharp inhale from beneath him is enough for Crowley to tilt his head and press their lips together. Nothing insistent, just pressure and need without expectations for more. 

When he feels Aziraphale’s fingers thread through strands of his hair, the ball of heat in his belly feels like it might burst. In the moment, he briefly imagines what it might be like to explode. To turn himself into the most beautiful nebula and show his angel exactly how much he truly loves, desires, needs him. 

Instead, he tries his hardest to convey his benediction with the soft slide of his lips and the tips of his fingers tracing delicate lines up and down Aziraphale’s side. His singing voice is terrible and he’s never been able to write poetry, but he can do  _ this _ . 

Aziraphale lightly brushes his knuckles along Crowley’s cheekbone and shifts away from the embrace, “Are you alright? Trust me dear, I’m not complaining. You just seem, different.”

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley pulls back to give them space to speak, “I don’t think I’ve ever been better. I finally,”  _ After millennia upon millennia of confusion _ , “Am realizing the point of some things.”

“Really? Like what?” The angel raises an eyebrow, curious and tempting.

“I think it would be better if I showed you.”

Crowley leans down to kiss his angel again. Because he can and he wants to. Because he finally gets it. He finally appreciates the burn of reverence in his gut and his bones. Every part of him aches to spend the rest of eternity figuring out new and proper ways to worship.

He knows this emotion. He just never thought he’d like it.

**Author's Note:**

> Along with writing again, I'm also back on Tumblr (@somnambulipstick). Maybe stop by and say hello?


End file.
